


A Raven Fallen

by shadows_of_1832 (SaoirseVictoire)



Category: Elisabeth - Levay/Kunze, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Enjolras as Death, F/M, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, writing experiment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2019-09-23 05:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17074184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaoirseVictoire/pseuds/shadows_of_1832
Summary: "I remember you," she says in her head. "You who were there after that fall, you who wore colors of raven’s wings, you whose skin was as cold as ice. Yes, I remember you, you who took my hand and told me the trees are for the birds, you who paused for a moment before vanishing into the shadows. I remember you, perhaps too well. Where have you been all these years?"





	1. Kein Kommen Ohne Geh'n

**Author's Note:**

> An old piece of mine I transferred over from FF.net. Partially inspired by Elisabeth das Musical through the use of personifying death, and experimented with the character of Enjolras in the role in the attempt to write a "colder" version of him.
> 
> Originally published June 24, 2015. Transferred on December 19, 2018.
> 
> All grammatical and spelling errors are mine.

_**I.** _

The first time she meets him, she is not yet eight years old.

It was an accident, her falling from that tree to show her younger sister that climbing to a high branch is not at all scary, nor dangerous. However, being the ignorant child she was, she made no connection that the rain would cause the tree bark to be slippery, causing her to lose her footing and plummet to the ground.

As she falls, she feels nothing but fear. She hears her sister scream out her name in panic, and in the blur of the fall, she sees the servant girl run towards the inn, leaving behind the now-spilled bucket of water she had been carrying. When she lands, all goes black; she feels no pain.

She should be dead, yet somehow, she isn't.

When her consciousness returns, she finds herself in her own bed, in her room, alone in one of the upper floors of her father's inn. Her neck hurts in way as if she had slept wrong, except no matter how she tries to move, the pain remains. She can feel a soreness in her back, and tries to lessen the pain by straightening out her body or curling up into a ball, but to no avail.

"The more you move, mademoiselle, the more it will continue to hurt."

The suddenness of the sincere yet unrecognizable voice is enough for her to sit up straight in her bed, looking amongst the shadows from where it possibly could have come. The darkness could hide many things, but the moonlight catches what otherwise cannot be. Her eyes fall upon a man sitting upon the windowsill, looking out into the calm night.

She eyes him with curiosity, the air of mysteriousness she can sense from him. She has never seen him before, she is certain of that. His dark clothes remind her of a raven's feathers, shimmering hues of purple and blue in the moonlight. His blond hair, appearing almost white against the pale light, call to mind images of snow at twilight in the dead of winter.

Could he be one of her father's customers that wandered into her room, mistaking it for their own? Perhaps he was a doctor who had taken care of her after her fall. Maybe it was someone asked to watch her while her parents sent for one.

She doesn't question his presence otherwise.

She watches the figure move through the shadows, towards her, closer and closer until he is kneeling on the floor beside the bed. She does not shrink back from him, no. To shrink back would be to show fear, and fear is not something she feels towards this stranger. He takes her hand, his skin like ice, but she does not flinch.

This stranger is odd to her, for reasons she does not know. The dark clothes, skin as cold as ice and ghostly pale in the moonlight, she feels almost as if she is in the presence of Death himself. Certainly if he was Death, she would be dead herself. As she takes another breath, feels her heart beat in her chest, she knows she is very much alive.

"Stay out of the trees, mademoiselle." She catches his eyes, a steel blue reminiscent of frozen streams. "They are meant for the birds."

With that, he stands, releases her hand, and starts to walk back towards shadows. Ignoring the pain, disregarding the protests of her limbs, she leans forward and loosely catches his wrist. He pauses for moment, looking down where their hands meet, before his eyes once again meet hers. There is a sudden feeling of warmth in his cold eyes, of contemplation. He slowly, perhaps reluctantly, walks away until only their fingertips touch, their eyes holding their gaze.

The trance lingers maybe just a few seconds too many, and before she realizes it, he vanishes into the shadows.

* * *

**_II._ **

She does not see him again until she is fifteen.

These past years have been nothing but turmoil for her family. Just a few months after the servant girl was bought by a man who claimed he promised her deceased mother he would raise her like his own, the inn started to lose business. Many left, and fewer people trickled in, until eventually, days would go by before an unsuspecting traveler walked through the inn's doors. Inevitably, the family inn had to close its doors for good, and her parents packed up what they had along with their two daughters before making their way to Paris with the hope of a better life there.

Alas, hope could only do so much. Day after day, they lived in squalor. She and her sister slept on the wooden floor of their run-down apartment, sharing a threadbare blanket, while their parents share a poor excuse for a mattress in the other room. Thievery, instead of being a past time, becomes a way of life for her. It is what her survival depends on, day in and day out. Upon returning each night, she is lucky to have a few coins in her pocket, or food in her stomach, but rarely does she keep that money, rarely does she eat what she finds. Her father usually takes the money from her, and while little food she finds she usually gives to her younger sister.

One day, as she picks a pocket of a young gentleman, she finds herself caught in the act. She tries to escape, only for the young man's hand to catch her wrist. She tries to break free, but his voice calms her down. He does not call for the police, but instead presses a few coins into her hand.

"You need these more than I," he tells her, and only as he walks away, does she notice how worn his clothes are.

She races after him, trying to return the coins, but he does not accept them. She continues to try until what was an argument becomes a pleasant conversation.

"…his name is Marius Pontmercy," she tells her sister as they prepare to retire for the night. "And it just so happens he lives in the apartment next to us."

"Is that so, Eponine?" her sister remarks as she pulls up the blanket. "You think you'll see him again?"

"Most definitely," she replies before blowing out the candle, allowing the darkness to surround her once again.

She manages to befriend the young gentleman, talking to him on his way to and from the small shop where he works as a book translator. This goes on for a few months. He asks about the bruises that mar her skin, and she answers that she accidently hit her arm on a doorframe or she bumped her knee against a table leg. Those are lies, though, and if he knows, he doesn't say anything about it.

She tries to lie her way around when she has a black eye, but Marius clearly catches it. She doesn't have the heart to tell him that her father abuses her and in some cases, her sister, and as he questions her more and more, she eventually shuts up completely.

He places a hand on her shoulder. "I just hope you know that you can tell me anything, 'Ponine, or that you can trust me."

Her eyes are downcast, and she pulls away and goes into the apartment without saying a word.

Her interactions with the young gentleman do not go unnoticed by her father. He asks her how much she is getting paid, and when she asks what for and says that she doesn't get paid, there is a sharp sting on her cheek not long afterwards.

She hears him mutter a few curses under his breath, before throwing the words "whore" and "slut" in her direction. She does not fight back when she is shoved against the wall, his father's grip around her neck keeping her in place as her body is beaten. The pain, she is used to, but when it keeps coming and coming and coming…her vision starts to blur, then slowly, her world goes black.

When she returns to consciousness, she can hear the murmuring from a conversation between her sister and man, the muffled voice of her mother yelling in the other room. Upon opening her eyes, she sees night has fallen, the candle besides her being the only light. She can feel the ache of pain in her chest and stomach, her entire torso wrapped in bandages while bruises cover her stomach.

"A few of her ribs are broken," she hears the man say. "For the next few weeks, it is probably best that she remains as still as possible, to give them enough time to heal properly."

She swears she knows that voice, and it takes a while for her to place it. The conversation between him and her sister carries on for a few more exchanges before the identity races back into her mind.

Eponine sits up slowly, to see if her suspicions hold true. She ignores the pain, while at the same time hoping the movement does not cause any further damage, damage that could be lethal. The conversation goes silent mid-sentence, her sister rushing to her side and telling her to keep still. She acknowledges her sister's plea with a curt nod, but not before making eye contact with the man who was something to her a bit more than a stranger, steel blue eyes meeting amber.

_I remember you_ , she says in her head.  _You who were there after that fall, you who wore colors of raven's wings, you whose skin was as cold as ice. Yes, I remember you, you who took my hand and told me the trees are for the birds, you who paused for a moment before vanishing into the shadows. I remember you, perhaps too well. Where have you been all these years?_

She can tell simply by the expression on his face that he remembers her, too.

From where she lies, it appears time has not changed him at all. His clothing has remained dark, this time pure black reflecting the candlelight, reminiscent of burning embers in coals. His blond hair, almost like fire. His eyes have not changed from their handsome hue, but now in the light, despite the youth his chiseled features hold, she catches a glimpse of the ages his eyes have seen. Ah, yes, he may appear young, perhaps not beyond twenty, but his eyes betray the rest of the facade. They have seen many dawns and many sunsets, days of peace and days of war, times of joy and times of turmoil. No, for a man so young, his eyes have seen too much.

When he leaves, almost without a word, only then does she dare to ask her sister:

"Where did you find him?"

Her sister takes a moment to process the question. "It's quite strange…Mother sent me to find a doctor, and just when I got out into the street, he was outside, as if…as if he was waiting for someone, almost as if he knew someone would be requiring his assistance."

Eponine nods, her, too, trying to figure out if such an event was merely a coincidence.

"And perhaps what I find to be the strangest thing of all, is that he did not ask for anything in return." her sister continues, gently pulling the blanket up to Eponine's shoulder. "Not even a single sous."

"Did you offer him anything?"

"Whatever money I could find in my pockets, but he did not accept any of it. I almost suspected he wanted something of a different nature, but he didn't. Only said to keep an eye on you, and to look for him if trouble arises."

* * *

_**III.** _

It is not much longer before she sees him again. This time, just months afterwards, shortly after she turned sixteen.

She knows it is not wise for a young gamine such as herself to be wandering the streets deep into the night, where everything is only quiet in appearance. A majority of Paris' population is blissfully sleeping in their beds, roofs sheltering them from above. Now is such the time where the darkest of figures emerge from the shadows, waiting for the chance to pounce on unsuspecting prey.

When she hears the sound of footsteps not too far off, she does not hesitate one bit before ducking into the safety of a pitch-black alley. Certainly there could be more danger there than in the open streets, but if she can easily escape one who might be following her, she'd rather take the chance.

She runs, not looking behind her to see if her pursuer has ceased their search. She hopes she can outrun them enough to keep a distance, or make it home, if she must. Whatever she can do to remain  _alive_.

She does not keep track of time in her getaway, running enough to enter what is uncharted territory for her, and her mother always told her that unfamiliar places are the most dangerous for anyone, for anything unknown could be lurking about. She makes it to a common street, not brightly lit, but lit enough for her to make out whatever suspicious characters could be nearby.

She wanders, hoping to come across something she recognizes, if even faintly. A building, a statue, a streetmarker, something to go by to get home. Fifteen minutes becomes half an hour, which becomes an hour, and after that, she stops keeping track of the time.

A scream suddenly pierces the night air, causing Eponine to jump and turn towards the sound, hoping that its cause is not making their way in her direction. She manages a glimpse of a figure rushing down the street opposite of her, before her eyes fall upon a mass lying on the ground, almost completely still.

Curiosity causes her to move towards the mass, only for her to discover that the mass is a woman. Based upon her style of clothes, a lady of the night. She can hear her faint, ragged breaths as she struggles to hold on, dark crimson liquid spilling from her chest, forming a sticky pool on the ground. Eponine kneels down beside her, not concerned about the blood on her rags, but rather if there is anything she can do for the poor woman.

She does not hear the set of footsteps behind her, and she jumps when she feels a cold hand on her shoulder. She does not freeze out of fright, no, but instead, looks for the person who dared to touch her.

It's  _him_.

"There is not a thing you can do for her." he tells her, and that was a conclusion she had already come to, though she was too stubborn to admit it.

"And you, what can you do?" Eponine counters, fighting the bit of terror she feels from the sight of the poor woman.

He does not answer, not immediately, at least in words.

She watches him walk around to the other side of the befallen woman, kneeling down beside her. His fingers brush away the hair that otherwise obscures the woman's face. She does not flinch from his cold touch, not as his arm slides behind her, helping her to sit up in these final moments. The woman's breaths, though ragged, start to calm, and her eyes remain focused only on him, not outwardly frightened by the strange man holding her. Slowly, he leans in, before his lips fall upon those of the dying woman.

With that, the woman takes her final breath and her body goes limp. He pulls away, gently laying her body down as if she were as delicate as porcelain.

"Free her." he finally answers, his eyes lingering sorrowfully at the woman for a moment, before he stands to his full height. "That is all I can do."

Eponine does not know what to think of what she had just witnessed, her mind still having not fully processed the woman bleeding out before her very eyes. She glances up at him, then down at the still form in front of her, trying to connect the kiss with the woman's body going limp. A mere coincidence, she starts to think, before she goes on to recall her previous encounters with the man. Her fall from the tree, her father's near-lethal beating…

Her plummet to the ground had been many feet, perhaps thirty or so, approximately the height of a three-storied building. Her father's abuse, where the punches kept coming and coming, where the resulting pain had been so severe she lost consciousness, where a few of her ribs had been broken…

…All near-death experiences.

" _La Mort_ …" she whispers, hoping he does not hear her and that her conclusion is wrong. When she was young, she had heard stories of Death in her family's inn, how in a person's final moments, he appears, offering the dying peace with the kiss of Death. She can recall hearing the tales of some who had danced with Death, managing to survive somehow beyond him trying to take them away from Life, but in the end, the same always happens.

When she looks up from the woman's corpse, Eponine finds that his ice-cold eyes are on her. He offers the young gamine his hand in order to help her up, and though hesitant, she takes it, not shivering from the touch of his freezing skin.

"So I am." he answers, just barely audible in the night breeze.

Eponine, for once, thinks this development should frighten her that she should run away and hope to only see him once more. She does not run, she does not pull away. She is not afraid, just as she had been the first time they met all those years ago.

"You should get out of here." he tells her, his eyes observing their surroundings. "Should the police come, it would not be good if they saw you here."

"Won't they see you, too?" she asks, his hand releasing hers.

_La Mort_  shakes his head. "That is something to be explained on a later date, now make haste!"

She takes a look around, only to remember she does not know which way to go, which way will allow her to make it home safely, or at least return her to a place she knows. She does not want to admit this to him, and she remains in place, though her instincts are telling her to obey his command, to run. Perhaps it doesn't matter which way she runs, as long as she gets out of there…

There is a suddenly tug on her wrist that drags her into the dark shadows of the alley, causing her to squeal a bit out of surprise. It's only him, though, and she thinks it is rather naïve of her to trust that he will not hurt her, but it is because of him that she is still alive.

"Why couldn't you have saved her?" she asks as the shock begins to die down. "You let me live twice before in incidents where I should have died, but I'm still alive."

He glances back at her, blue eyes cold against the trace of moonlight that reaches the dark alley. "It was her time, and for you in both cases, it was not."

His eyes then look downward, almost as if there is something troubling him, if not from the question then from the situation. He turns away, continuing his walk down the narrow path.

She is not letting him get away so easily, and just as her seven-year-old self did all those years ago, she catches his wrist. He pauses in his steps, turning to see where his wrist is firmly held in her grasp. Just as he had done before, he walks away slowly, appearing unsure about how to otherwise react. This time, though, he cannot move any further, the young gamine unwilling to let go.

"And who are you to decide that, when a person should live and when they should die?" she inquires, her brown eyes fierce. "If I have any understanding of how this works, Death can take anyone he chooses at any given time."

"Then you have been mislead." he replies, trying to pull away from her grasp, only for it to tighten. "I do not decide when mortals leave this world—that is decided by Fate. She decides when people are born, when they meet others, when they become ill, when they die. It is required of me to merely help them along."

"What happens if you chose not to help them along, if you let them live?" He once again tries to pull his arm free, but once again she won't let him. "Surely in centuries past you have attempted something of the sort?"

He freezes, and his body relaxes with a deep exhale. He turns his head away, as if not wanting her to see the expression his faces bears. "Are such things necessary for you to know, mademoiselle?"

"At this instance, yes, it is." Eponine answers firmly, determination in her voice. "If you let mortals live who are meant to die, what happens?"

"Those are complicated matters."

"Are they really?" she asks, not bothering to disguise the sarcasm in her tone. "Or would you rather not tell me?"

"Does it matter?" he counters. "Either way, in the end, all mortals die. That is inevitable. If the old were permitted to live, they would simply wither away until they became dust, and the young will one day grow old, and they, too, will turn to dust."

Her grip loosens slightly at the harshness, or perhaps it was the truth, behind his words. He does not, however, take the opportunity to get away, as he had done in that trance years ago.

"Could you have taken me instead?" she says after a spell of silence, releasing his wrist and her arm falls back to her side. "Had I said something, given you permission, could I have gone in her place?"

A raven makes its call. A dog faintly barks in the distance. The crickets chirp their eerie song. One day, such creatures will cease to make a sound, just as every night ends to allow the sun to rise.

_La Mort_  takes his time to answer, his eyes casting a gaze upon the dark night sky, the stars, though small, shining radiantly in the distance. He takes one step back before she can feel his eyes on her, watching, waiting. She will not run, not while waiting for a response. If distracting her with the appeal of the stars is his intention, it is not one that will work for long, and she's barely immersed in the beauty of the night sky before his voice calls her back to reality.

"Not even if you permitted it."

* * *

**_IV._ **

She does not see  _him_  again for a few weeks.

She starts to see less and less of Marius. He begins to work odd hours at the shop, and starts to make random trips to the Luxembourg Gardens. Very rarely does she encounter him leaving his apartment, and the same goes for returning. When they do have an encounter, it is usually brief, for he is usually going somewhere, where she has to try and prevent her father from seeing her with this man, lest he beat her again for it.

Eponine has become involved a bit more in her father's schemes, becoming a key part to the Patron Minette's crimes. She is small enough to fit within small crevices that not even the dandy, Montparnasse, can get into, able to reach into places the others cannot. She is not one to kill, however, when possible witnesses are involved—she leaves that to the rest of the gang, not wanting blood on her hands. Sometimes she acts as the distraction, because there are some who will not ignore a poor girl who injured her ankle and cannot walk, or take a chance on a young girl at the street corner. She is always careful not to let things go too far with the latter, her innocence remaining intact.

One night, though, the street corner distraction goes horribly wrong.

The Patron Minette misses their cue to pounce, and someone pulls her backwards into an alley. She screams for help, for her mother, for her father, for Montparnasse, for Marius, and even for  _la Mort_ , but not one comes to her rescue.

She has never been so scared in her life.

She asks to be left alone, tells her attacker to stop, begs for any sort of mercy. She uses all the strength she has to fend him off, by kicking, by shoving, by making things difficult as she possibly can, but in the end, it isn't enough.

When it's all over, her attacker scampers off, throwing a few sous in her direction, while she sits there shaking against the alley wall, the rain not enough to wash away the pain, nor hide the saltiness of her tears.

She is still trying to recover from the ordeal, still trying to figure what happened, that she does not hear a man's sudden cry of pain in the near distance, nor does she hear the sound of footsteps coming towards her. She is still crying when she hears  _his_  voice, quiet and soothing.

She is too traumatized from the ordeal to hear him, to pick out his words, but when she looks up, she sees those steel-blue eyes soften, his usually blond hair dark and soaked from the rain. She notices spots of red on his face, on his neck, in his hair that the rain has not yet washed away, and she is not taken aback by the sight at all, too shaken up by the ordeal she had just been through.

She does not notice the moment she is lifted from the cobblestone ground, nor does she remember when she nuzzled her head upon his chest. She shivers in his arms, but not from the cold. Her focus on what happened stops her from feeling the pain, but only temporarily.

She ever-so slowly comes back to reality. She takes no notice of being laid down on a couch in front of a fireplace, its flames already burning. She barely recognizes the feel of a dry cloth dabbing the rain and tears from her face. She barely recalls when a few layers of blankets started to cover her shivering, traumatized form.

She does not sleep at all that night, only seeing the face of her attacker every time she closes her eyes. Every so often, throughout the night,  _la Mort_  takes a warm cloth and dabs it upon her forehead, soothingly telling her to relax.

Eponine does not ask him why he was not there only two minutes sooner. She does not ask why he allowed that to happen while she screamed for his help, for anyone's help. The thoughts come to mind, but she never voices that. She wants to be mad at him, for not being there in those traumatic moments when she knows he could have intervened in some way to prevent it, but the words from their previous meeting suddenly remind her why he didn't.

" _I do not decide when mortals leave this world—that is decided by Fate. She decides when people are born, when they meet others, when they become ill, when they die. It is required of me to merely help them along_."

What happened to her was something Fate had woven in her tapestry, something that was beyond the control of Death himself. He could not change it if he tried.

"I am terribly sorry, mademoiselle." he says while dabbing the cloth on her forehead. "You did not deserve that, no mortal deserves that."

She stirs underneath the blankets before doing what she can to sit up while preventing as much pain as she can. "It is not your fault."

"I would have stopped him if—"

"It was within your control, but it was not." Eponine finishes her sentence, her speech still shaking. "And you cannot be blamed for something you have no control over."

He nods curtly, before turning towards the burning fire. He stares at its flames, as if contemplating something, something that was plaguing his mind. She does not press him, though. She is somewhat aware of the burden he carries. Every day, since the beginning, he has taken lives. He is why nobody lives forever, taking them away at Fate's command. He has taken away fathers in battle, has stolen children from their mother's breasts. He ends the suffering of the starving and the ailing. He has done it before she was born, and will be doing it for centuries more after she dies.

"Thank you." she says after a spell, causing him to turn his head. "For doing what you could."

She could have sworn he started to smile, but it disappears too quickly for her to know for certain. "My pleasure."

Within the next few days, she develops a fever. She constantly slips in and out of consciousness, always wondering if she will ever wake up again,  _la Mort_  finally taking her away. But each time her eyes close, they later open, and as each day passes, she feels that dying from what ails her is less likely.

_La Mort_  comes and goes, she observes those few days. There were times where she would wake up to an empty room, with the fire barely burning. Other times she would wake up to the feeling of a cold cloth being dabbed on her forehead.

After a week, she finally returns home, her sister and her mother welcoming her with open arms. They ask her what happened to her, where she had been. Eponine asks what did her father say happened, and when her sister replies that he said she ran away in the middle of a robbery attempt, she tells them the truth (of what she can bear to say).

"I followed Father's orders, and when I gave them their cue, they didn't seem to hear me. Not long after that, I was dragged away. " Eponine recalls, trying to push the traumatic details out of her mind. She keeps the details of her attack short, not wanting to relive those horrific moments. "Shortly afterwards, another man came by and took me in. He did not hurt me in any way, only took care of me."

That night, while curled up under her threadbare blanket beside her sister, she can hear a rather loud argument between her father and mother in the other room.

* * *

**_V._ **

The following afternoon, she happens to bump into a rather-frantic Marius, and never in her time knowing him has she seen him in such a panic.

"Is everything alright, Monsieur Marius?" she barely has a chance to ask before she feels his arms around her.

She revels in moment while it lasts, before he pulls out of the embrace and clasps his hands on her shoulders. "It is good to see you are alright."

"What makes you think anything was wrong?" Eponine counters, raising an eyebrow in confusion.

"Haven't seen you around in about a week or so." Marius replies, his arms dropping to his sides. "And then my friend said there was a terrible accident involving the older Jondrette girl, but I did not hear the details. I have been wandering around the streets of Paris the past few days thinking you were dead! Please do not let that happen again, 'Ponine."

She smiles, slight amusement in her eyes. "I'll try not to, monsieur."

"You will find a way, I am sure." he says with a chuckle, and just like that, the two part ways, Marius leaving Eponine standing there as he dashes off towards the Luxembourg Gardens.

* * *

_**VI.** _

Eponine sits in the corner of the room with the threadbare blanket, with tears in her eyes when  _he_  appears in the window, like a raven perched in a tree on All Hallow's Eve.

"There is another."  _la Mort_ informs her, though a part of her swears she already knew.

"What makes you think that?" she retorts, knowing what the response would be. She is not blind nor deaf, not when it comes to Marius. His random outings to the Luxembourg Gardens, the mumbling she has sometimes heard through the walls that almost sound like the practicing of lines. The day before the incident, she could have sworn he muttered something about an Ursula. She had tried to push it out of her mind, but the more she sees, the less she succeeds.

"Does it matter, whether it was Fate or by my own investigation?" he counters, sliding off the edge of the window ledge until his feet touch the floor. "Marius Pontmercy sees you only as a friend, mademoiselle, and nothing more."

She knows the latter statement to be true, but she is not willing to admit it, and to prevent another word on the subject, she says, "At least  _I_  am capable of  _love_."

Death looks at her with harsh eyes, not the cold expression that he frequently bears. It is clear she has struck some sort of chord within him, and instead of shutting up, she continues.

"You may be able feel, whether it is sympathy or anger, pity or happiness, but you cannot love. Everything that may have put a warm feeling in your heart has to die one day, monsieur, and you are the one who must take it away from Life." Eponine says in the midst her frustration, her sadness, her confusion. "You may kill out of pity for the weak and ailing, and anger for those who harmed the innocent, but love,  _you_  cannot kill someone out of that, not after centuries of taking lives. You have bared this burden for centuries and will for all eternity, but your heart is stone, and even if you did find what mortals call love, there will come a day where you will have to kill them."

She is not wrong, not completely. Just as everything King Midas touched turned to gold, everything Death touched died. Maybe he would not have to take them away immediately, but he would have to, one day, due to forces beyond his control. To take away lives and end their suffering, he did that, but only at Fate's command. Out of anger, it was Fate's way of punishment for those who had wrong paths within their tapestry. For Eponine to say Death could not love, one could not say with great certainty that the statement was false. If one can feel anger, happiness, or pity, surely they can feel love? Yet, if one's occupation was to one day take someone away from Life, day after day, night after night, since the beginning of time, it is possible to say they had started to build up walls long ago to prevent such a feeling, to protect themselves.

"You speak as if I had a say in the matter."  _la Mort_  replies tightly. "As if being someone mortals fear was my choice, as if killing them was something I chose to do."

"You haven't told me otherwise." Eponine counters as she stands up. "But then again, there is little you have told me."

"I believe I have told you enough," he says sternly, "perhaps more than one should know about Death."

A pause. The silence allows the songs of crickets and a distant hoot of an owl.  _La Mort_  stares out the window, contemplation in his steel-blue eyes. The moonlight reflects raven-like hues in his clothing, his blond hair almost white. He looks so much like the strange man she met all those years ago after falling out of the slippery tree, but since then, there has been change. His expression is still cold, his skin still like ice. His behavior, especially towards her, as far as she can tell, is no different than he treats other mortals, beings whose souls he will one day take from the Earth. The change, if only she could put her finger on it…

"You are right, though, mademoiselle," he continues, his voice much calmer this time. "I bear the burden of immortality, the sole purpose of my existence to take lives away, but it was not my choice. That decision was made by a power much higher-ranked than Fate, and for all eternity, the occupation will not change.

"On the matter of love, that is a debatable subject, for mortals and immortals. Both can choose to love, mademoiselle, those of Olympus being an example of for the immortals." Death tells her, starting to walk slowly across the floor. "There were some who loved those of the opposite gender, those of the same gender, none at all, and some who loved those not of their kind. There were some instances where 'love' was not the god's own choosing. I take it you are familiar with Apollo and Daphne?"

"I am." Eponine nods in response. "Daphne was nymph who scorned Apollo, who with the golden arrow of Eros, had fallen in love with her. Apollo continued to follow her until one day, he almost caught up with her. She asked her father to change her form, and just as Apollo reached her, she transformed into a laurel tree, if my memory serves me right."

"That it does." He turns towards her, but remains in place. "Both Apollo and Daphne were mythical beings, a god and a nymph, but in contrast, it was a punishment of Eros to strike Apollo with a golden arrow and Daphne with one of iron."

"He still found himself fascinated by her," she recalls, leaning against the wall. "Though she became something he could never have, I've heard some stories that claim he took care of her after she turned into the tree."

"As have I, and perhaps he did."  _la Mort_  glances out the window. "In this particular circumstance, though, Apollo did not choose to love—another god chose for him."

"Is this your way of saying that you, Life, and Fate could do the same to one another?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," he replies, taking his place by leaning against the wall beside her. "But not just the three of us. There are others out there, some of equivalent rank, and others much powerful than I."

Eponine nods in understanding, and watches him make his way towards the window. "Then perhaps there is hope for you yet."

"Perhaps."

He then climbs out the window, and disappears into the night.

* * *

**_VII._ **

The next time she encounters him, almost a year has gone past. She had only recently turned seventeen, and the year is 1831.

She is only running an errand for Marius when she stumbles upon him, this time at the Café Musain, a place Marius had started frequenting around the same time he encountered the girl her started fawning over, and still was.

She climbs up the stairs of the old café, expecting to be there maybe five minutes at the most, delivering two of three letters: one for a M. Courfeyrac and another for a M. Enjolras. The third letter, addressed to Euphrasie Fauchelevent, was her next errand.

She expects there to be a whole group of young men, as Marius had told her there might be. The Friends of the ABC, they were called, a group of young men wanting to create change in the Parisian landscape. They were advocates for a Republic, and like some of the bourgeoisie who otherwise remained silent, did would they could to assist the poor, but that was not enough. When she reaches the top of the stairs, there are only three.

"I will make sure to check on Grantaire at the  _Barrière du Maine_ , and let us hope he does not make us look like fools."

Eponine freezes in mid-step at the familiarity of the voice, and she hopes for one of the few times in her life, she is terribly mistaken. But when her eyes catch a glimpse of the blond hair and cold eyes, she knows she is not wrong. Though the raven hues are absent in his attire, his face is not one she would mistake for another.

"Pardon me, mademoiselle, but are you looking for someone?" One of the other men asks as the third closes the book that had been in front of them.

Slowly, she nods, trying to snap out of the shock of seeing  _la Mort_  among their ranks. "Yes, actually I am. Letters for M. Courfeyrac and M. Enjolras, from Marius Pontmercy."

"There is no need for formalities. You can simply call me Courfeyrac, and the gentleman with the glasses is Combeferre, and other who you are looking for is standing beside him." The young man greets kindly. "Enjolras, your favorite Bonapartist has a note for you!"

" _Buonaparte_."  _la Mort_ , or in this case, 'Enjolras' corrects, before approaching her and collecting the letter. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few coins, placing them into her hands. "For your troubles, mademoiselle."

"Th-thank you." Eponine stutters, her mind still trying to process what the situation is.

She is still there when Courfeyrac and Combeferre leave, having other activities to attend to.  _La Mort_  continues to go through the stacks of paper one of the tables until the sun starts to set, before placing them away in the messenger bag that lies at his feet.

"Do you not have other errands to run, mademoiselle?" he says to her finally as he reaches for the black coat hanging on the wooden rack behind him.

"What sort of game are you playing?" Eponine counters fiercely. It is one thing for him to occasionally appear in her life, but for him to be involved in something like this, there is obviously more than meets the eye.

"Revolution is not a game, mademoiselle."

"It is when you are involved, Shadowed One." she retorts, looking him straight in the eye. "And when you get involved with the lives of mortals, little good will come of it."

"I am well aware of that, thank you."  _la Mort_  replies as he puts on his coat. "For what my involvement here will bring, I am only doing what must be done. It is not being done on my own accord, either, if you would so wish to know."

"Fate must have told you something, 'Enjolras'." Eponine mocks, not backing away when he takes a few steps of warning told her. "What did she tell you? What do you have planned?"

_La Mort_  stares at her for a few moments, as if the questions were strange to him. "How has Monsieur Marius been?"

"He's fine, but he has no relation to the subject at hand."

"Are you sure about that?"

She's not, and she is hoping her expression does not show it, that Death cannot see the uncertainity in her otherwise defiant eyes. "These young men have done nothing wrong, as far as I can tell, and you are prepared to lead them to slaughter?"

"It is  _not my choice_ , mademoiselle."  _la Mort_  says through gritted teeth. "If this plan goes through the way Fate has organized it, yes, many innocent men will die, but she has her reasons for it, and I am not going to disobey her."

"Why not?"

"Because certain matters will become complicated." he replies, lifting the bag off the floor. "In ways I cannot explain."

"Thinking makes it so." the gamine blocks his way from going down the stairs.

"I mean it, mademoiselle." he glares at her as she stares him down, not even taking one step back from him as he gets closer and closer to her. "Now, if you can excuse me, there is other business I need to attend to."

He takes one step forward in warning, and she remains still. If she takes two more steps backward, she might fall down the stairs, and a part of her wonders if that is how she is supposed to die, from an accident such as falling down the stairs, but it would not be an accident so much if he pushed her—

"Oh, Enjolras! I am so glad I caught you!" a voice says from behind her, causing her to turn around to see the man known as Courfeyrac climbing up the stairs. Eponine moves out of the way to let him through, and as Death throws a cold look her way, she takes note that the confrontation is over, leaving the two men to their conversation.


	2. Der Schleier fällt

Time goes on. Summer gives way to the cooling breeze and the decay of autumn. The trees are bare, snow begins to fall, and winter begins.

Marius begins to court Euphrasie Fauchelevent, the servant girl Eponine had known as Cosette years ago, and the gamine realizes how the tables have turned. The servant girl, poor in a time while the Thenardiers had thrived. Now, the servant girl lives a comfortable life and has stolen the heart of the man the foolish gamine had fallen for, while the Jondrettes struggle to have so much as a few sous in their hands.

Her father, her mother, and the Patron Minette have been arrested during one of their schemes in the early fall, resulting in a prison sentence that left Eponine and her sister to fend for themselves. Their apartment was no longer theirs, no roof above their heads, leaving the pair to scavenge day and night. The air grew colder, and her sister's health took a terrible turn. Eponine, desperate to keep her lone sister alive, sought out a convent with the hopes they would help her, perhaps provide her shelter for the time being. The Sisters took pity and allowed them in. Eponine did not stay long, though, only a few days to ensure her sister was getting better, before returning to the streets with the hopes of finding something for the long-term. Eponine has not seen her since, and as far as she can tell, she's on her own.

_La Mort_ , under the name "Enjolras," continues to carry on with his involvement within the Friends of the ABC, much to Eponine's chagrin. He, alongside Marius, have gathered numerous supporters against Louis-Philippe, a majority of them young men like most of the members of  _Les Amis de l'ABC_. The young men are convinced the people are on their side and will fight with them when the time comes, but Eponine knows better, at least about the latter, and she has a feeling Death knows the same.

"Why won't you tell them?" Eponine asks him one late December night on the second floor of the old café. "This could be a chance to stop many needless deaths."

"Again, dear Eponine, as I have told you, I have no say in this." he replies tiredly, his eyes going over the words he had just finished writing on a piece of parchment. "Do I want to be responsible for what is to come? No, but it is what I must do, whether I want to or otherwise."

"Have you appealed to Fate? Maybe it isn't too late for her to change their tapestries!" the gamine suggests, but only in vain.

Death takes a deep breath. "I have, on a few occasions, but she told me for time to pass as it should, their losses are a necessity, and that is not something I can easily argue."

"Surely you could find something?"

"Their deaths are fixed points in time, and one way or another when the time comes, they will expire. I cannot change it, and neither will Fate." he tells her, setting the piece of parchment aside. "It is a terrible thing, and I understand that, but there is absolutely  _nothing_  I can do, I'm sorry."

"There must be something!" the gamine sits down in the chair beside him with a thud, glancing down at the parchment, before her eyebrows furrow in confusion. "What language is that in?"

_La Mort_  takes notice that she is referring to the writing on the parchment, and delicately moves the paper out of her sight. "That is none of your concern."

"It certainly wasn't French." Eponine continues, only wishing she had gotten a better look at it. "May I see it?"

"No."

"It is not as if I can read it—I only know French." she argues, trying to reach around him to grab the parchment on the other side of him. He then stands up from his chair, taking the parchment with him before placing it carefully inside the messenger bag by the stairs.

"Let it alone, mademoiselle." he tells her as she immediately gets up from the chair in the hopes of getting to the bag before he becomes an obstacle, but nonetheless, he gets in her way. "It is no concern of yours."

"I am only curious,  _Enjolras_." Eponine says teasingly. "There is no need to be uptight about it."

Death huffs at this before putting on his coat. "Did your parents ever teach you to respect others' business?"

"I believe that is a question you already have an answer to." she replies, leaning against a chair as she watched him gather his things. "I do wonder, though, how you are capable of maintaining a form visible to mortals, and walking among us in the flesh."

"Do you now?" he did not sound surprised.

"When you appeal to the crowds, they can hear you, and your companions can shake your hand, as if you are actually human." she continues, having had similar thoughts in her mind since the one day she had delivered letters to him and Courfeyrac. "Instead of a spirit."

"There are some questions better left unanswered."  _la Mort_  replies, pausing for a moment, his eyes seemingly focused on the lone lit candle in the room. Eponine moves her head, before noticing something odd about the candle itself. The candle flickers as normal, the flame picking up on the directions of moving air, but the dripping wax…the candle is an aged white, and she swears the melted wax dripping down its sides is crimson. She blinks a few times, just to make sure her eyes are not playing a trick on her, only to find that the sight remains the same.

"That…how…?" Eponine starts to ask, but she is unsure of how to string the words together.

"There are some things that simply cannot be explained." he answers, watching the blood-colored substance on the candle. "Only shown."

"You are rather cryptic in your answers." she comments, coming up from behind him.

"Perhaps that is the way they are intended to be." he looks at her with a half-smile, and she rolls her eyes in response. He takes a few steps away from the messenger bag to extinguish the candle, and with this opportunity, she almost heads towards it to snatch the paper. If she got ahold of it without his notice, there may be a chance Marius might be able to figure at least what language it was in, and if she was lucky, perhaps there was a chance he could translate it…

But Death returns too quickly for her to act, and only by the cold expression in his eyes does she realize so much as attempting to snatch the paper from the bag was not even worth it. She does not fear him, no, nor is she afraid of what he is capable of, but the steel-blue of his eyes, ancient as time itself, almost causes her to forget about the parchment entirely, and for what reason, she does not know.

She expects him to vanish, the darkness of the shadows enough for him to disappear without a trace. Instead, he lingers, the moonlight from the window enough for her to make out his form.

The cold December air from the drafty window causes her to shiver, her clothing not suitable enough for the weather winter brings. Her clothing is covered in patches and holes, her boots falling apart from wear, and she does not even have so much as a scarf or an old coat to give her warmth. With no place to go, she spends most nights on the streets, except on the rare occasion she stumbles upon an empty house where a fire could be lit. She has yet to fall ill from the lack of proper clothing, and she considers herself lucky for that, on top of  _la Mort_  choosing not to claim her in these frigid months.

"I thought you were leaving." she says, trying to ignore the chill that reaches her skin.

"I was," he replies, glancing at the window. "But Madame Hucheloup will not be pleased if she finds I left with you still here."

"I won't cause any harm."

Death nods curtly. "I am aware of that, mademoiselle, but she might not be as understanding."

" _Might_  not be, or  _will_  not be?" Eponine inquires, hoping that he will brush it off just this once for the sake of a roof being over her head, but the unchanging look on his face is enough for her to realize her efforts are pointless.

"Mademoiselle…" he warns, his tone clearly informing her that he does not have the patience for such banter. She, however, is not willing to give up, not just yet.

"You are always talking of helping the poor," she mentions, taking a few steps towards him. "Yet when the opportunity presents itself, you refuse to do anything about it."

"I have my reasons, and Madame Hucheloup has hers, one being she does not want her café turning into a shelter for the poor, at least just yet." he tells her, annoyance in his tone. "It is lucky enough she allows us to carry on our activities when she could very well report us and have us arrested for treason."

"They can't arrest you, and they won't be able to execute you either." Eponine thinks aloud, taking a few steps towards him. "The other men, certainly, but not you. Now, regarding you leaving…"

"You cannot stay here." Death rephrases, his steel-blue eyes glaring at her. She is not taken aback by his expression at all, and takes a few steps closer. "I understand you have no place to go, but there is nothing I can offer you. I can suggest seeking Marius out and asking to stay with him, though such things are not proper and if I am perceiving things correctly, you two have not been on speaking terms as of late."

" _Non_." she shakes her head, knowing the truth behind his words. Reluctantly, she gives up, and as she starts down the stairs, she can feel his cold eyes upon her back, before she hears his footsteps close behind, to see her out.

At the café's entrance, he holds the door open for her, like a proper gentleman would. She remains close by as she listens to the sound of him locking the door, the streets otherwise peaceful in the falling snow. The buildings' windows are dark, families having gone to bed a few hours ago, while smoke slowly rises from the chimneys, providing warmth from the unforgiving temperatures that lie outside their doors. How she longs for something like that! To have a bed to sleep in, a roof over her head, sheltering her from the snow as a fire burns in the hearth—

Eponine, exposed to the relentless cold of winter, does not what comes over her as she begins to feel light-headed. The snowflakes being blown in the wind encircle her, and watching them has a dizzying effect as she tries to keep her balance. Before she realizes it, her arm reaches out, seeking something to prevent her from falling to ground, and grips onto  _la Mort_ 's shoulder as her knees give in from the strain. She collapses, and he catches her.

" _Mon Dieu_!" she hears him gasp, managing to grab her before she falls to the ground. "Are you all right, Eponine?"

Clearly not, having just nearly passed out from being outside. Her small, fragile frame is shivering in his arms. Seeking warmth, she nestles close to his chest, expecting his body heat to warm her a little bit, but her attempts are futile. He is not human, not mortal. He does not have blood running through his veins to keep him alive, for he has no need for it. He is nothing more than a spirit in human form. His body is cold, like ice against her skin. He is not alive, nor dead; no heart beats in his chest. Anything from him that would be of comfort to her does not exist, not with him.

She does not know how long he holds her in his arms, her instincts focusing on finding a source of heat through him, albeit unsuccessful. She does not know why her body decided to surrender like that, directly in front of Death himself in the midst of snowfall and freezing temperatures. She does not know why he does not simply leave her on the cold cobblestones, and instead carries her like a child who had fallen asleep in their parent's arms.

She is not fully aware as to when the biting winter air changes into soothing warmth, nor when  _la Mort_  lays her down on a couch in front of flickering flames. She does not notice when blankets are draped over her shivering form. She barely catches the exchange between Death and another, but through the blurred shapes she thinks she can make out a pair of glasses.

"Enjolras, what is—Is that the Jondrette girl?"

A nod, and then the two figures come near her as her vision takes its precious time to clear. She does not shrink away or put up a fight when the bespectacled student kneels down by the couch and places a hand on her forehead, or when he takes hold of her wrist to check her pulse. Though her spirit is strong, in this moment her body is weak.

"There's no fever, but her pulse, it's not where it should be." he says to 'Enjolras,' before turning his attention back towards her. "Mademoiselle, can you hear me?"

Eponine nods, only enough to give him a response.

"How do you feel?"

"Cold…" she croaks, her voice faint as she snuggles into the blankets. She catches his eyes flicker towards  _la Mort_ , who takes a few steps forwards, appearing quite concerned. In most circumstances, with most people, she could understand, but when Death himself is, she cannot help but to be a little worried. The spirit could actually be genuinely concerned, while on the other hand, he might only appear that way because another person is present.

"Have you eaten recently?" the student asks her, and she shakes her head slightly. Food is difficult enough for her to find in the warmer months, scraps easier to come upon over the rarity of something fresh. Winter was not as kind, and very rarely did she even stumble upon a tiny bit of scrapped food. In truth, she can't even remember when she had so much a crumb to nibble on.

_La Mort_ , without a single word, disappears into the kitchen as the student starts boiling water in the fireplace, before returning with a small plate of bread that he sets on the end table. Eponine barely takes notice.

"The lack of food and the cold have taken their toll on her, I think." she hears the student comment by the fire. "She'll survive, I do not doubt, but had you not been there…I highly doubt she would have lasted the night."

"There are others out there, Combeferre, just like her. We only have not encountered them yet." Death replies as he joins the student by the fire. "And Louis-Philippe stands by and allows such suffering to continue, when the problem is directly underneath his nose. Things will only become worse if they remain as they are."

"You are not wrong, my dear friend, I grant you that." Combeferre stirs the water in the pot. "But as the tensions rise and the spark ignites, we cannot be certain the people will rise with us. They support us, certainly, but that does not guarantee that they will fight."

As the conversation carries on, Eponine notices how the two men take the concept of revolution seriously. She is positive that Death knows exactly what is to come, when it'll happen, who is to die and who will survive. The student, though, does not have such an advantage, yet he seems to have a firm grasp on what could possibly happen and why. He understands that yes, for change to happen, rebellion is often the action taken, but at the same time, is well-aware of the consequences, death being the obvious one.

Here and there, she nibbles on the bit of bread, listening to the two go back and forth. Even as there is a brief pause as Combeferre gives her a warm cup of tea, the pair talk for what must be for two hours, before she dozes off.

When she wakes up, the conversation, by the sound of it, is still going, only it has moved into the kitchen. That…and it appears the subject has changed.

"…I was not going to leave her there is such a state." she hears  _la Mort_  say as there is a small  _clang_  of a glass being set onto the counter. "What kind of man would I look like if someone saw me walk away and abandon her?"

"I am not saying you were wrong in bringing her here," the other man responds. "I am only making the observation that this is…not something you normally do. Hand out pamphlets and a few sous, yes, or maybe offer a quilt or your coat, but bringing someone from the outside here, is not something I would expect you to do."

A pause. A few footsteps creaking on the floor, almost pacing, then a soft thud that sounded like someone just leaned against the wall or countertop. The sound of a glass grazing the countertop back and forth while another is set down.

"Oh." she hears Combeferre mutter in realization, and she wishes she knew what it was about.

A tired sigh. "You won't tell the others, will you?"

There is the sound of one clapping a hand to the other's shoulder. "Not a word."

* * *

Months pass, seasons change. 1831 seamlessly becomes 1832, winter morphs into spring. Tensions rise, the scent of death and rebellion in the air as cholera begins to plague Paris, picking off its citizens one by one.

The Friends of the ABC and their counterparts continue to spread their ideas of change, of a Republic in France. In caution, they speak out against their King of the French, about what he has done to help the people's plight, or rather, the lack of it.

Eponine finds it more and more difficult to avoid the crowds the Republicans gather, their promises of equality and justice pulling them in. These crowds only grow larger as many hear that General Lamarque is ill, slowly dying from the same plague affecting the rest of Paris. The young men speak with such passion, such fire, it is only a shame that such raging flames will eventually be put out by a shower of bullets. Sometimes, to her, it sounds like  _la Mort_  is even convinced the rebellion could be a success, but oh, she knows her old friend all-too well.

"Is it painful?" she asks him one evening on the second story of the Café Musain, after the others had left.

"What is?"

"That you know what is come, that you are leading these men to slaughter?" she clarifies, looking over his shoulder as he writes on piece of paper, most likely notes for the next meeting or a speech's draft.

The quill stops. "It depends on what you define as 'painful'."

"Pity, remorse." Eponine sits down on the table beside the paper, watching his facial expressions shift as he goes back to writing. "Perhaps grief?"

He takes a deep breath. "You are asking someone who has removed people from Life for centuries."

"Doesn't mean you can't feel, and I  _know_  you can." She notices him crinkle his nose for a moment, before he shakes his head. "You have killed out of pity, out of anger. What would stop you from feeling the former or anything like it weeks before you have to kill them?"

"One learns not to develop feelings for others they have made companions out of after living for so many years." he answers bitterly, setting the quill down before rising from the chair. "Especially if that one has to one day kill them, which in my case, I always do."

"You could try saving them, and not kill them."

He sighs in annoyance. "As I have previously informed you, mademoiselle, I cannot change what Fate has in store for them, and if I could, even if I saved so much as one life, it could have dramatic effects on to what is supposed to happen. It could possibly create complications greater than that, even."

"Do you speak from experience, then, or do you always listen to what Fate tells you?" Eponine asks sharply, and simply by the look she receives in return, she can tell that he has, indeed, disobeyed Fate at least on one occasion. The way his blue eyes turn away from her, catching interest in the floor, how his annoyance and fierceness seemingly fade quickly. His shoulders tense, his body stills. A sense of guilt hangs in the air…

"I see…" she says quietly, before placing a hand atop his. His cold hand stiffens at her touch at first, then relaxing. His head turns, allowing her to catch a glimpse of what she can only perceive as grief in his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"What is there to apologize for?" he questions, his eyes flickering up at her. "It is of no fault but my own."

"That…I shouldn't have asked." Eponine pulls her hand away, back into her lap. The candle's light causes the pair's shadows to dance about the walls, she observes, though the both of them, at this moment, are still. Her eyes take a glance at the paper beside her, once again in a language unknown to her, and with him being Death, it could very well be any language that ever existed, the only possibility she could eliminate was French. However, when he appears to notice her looking at the paper, instead of snatching it away like last time, he only looks down at it.

"Sixteen years…" she hears him mutter under his breath, and she barely catches it. "Set this country back sixteen years…"

What he means by that, she isn't sure. What she is aware of, though, based on his tone, it would not be wise to ask.

* * *

Only a few days later, on June first, 1832, does news spread that General Lamarque has passed, and with his passing, the rebellion's spark.

The second floor of the Musain is nothing short of hectic. All the time, all the planning, the organization, it all lead up to this. Guns and ammunition are checked and gathered. The map is looked over once more, as the group goes over the plans. They will meet at the funeral procession and strike then, and if chaos erupts, the rendezvous point will be the Musain. If anything, violence is to be the final result, mortalities along with it.

Even as she sits in the café, listening to everyone's ramblings about how the people will join them in the fight, Eponine can sense that they are aware of the fact that they may not make it out alive. Nobody says it, but it is felt. They know this is a dangerous game they are playing, students fighting soldiers, a good portion of them, anyway.

In the midst of preparations, she notices Marius sneak down the stairs, and with little hesitation, she follows him, knowing full well it could be the last time she will see him alive.

"Where are you going off to?" she asks when she reaches him in the streets, grabbing on to the sleeve of his coat. "Abandoning your friends, are you?"

"Oh, Eponine, I do not want to," he replies earnestly, desperation in his hazel eyes. "And I won't, but…I have to at least say goodbye to Cosette, in the case I do not come out of the fight alive."

She tries to fight the trace of a smile that forms upon her face, recalling the times she loved the man who would never love her back, who loved the servant girl she knew as a child instead. She will admit, it still hurts to think about it, but when it comes down to it all, she would rather see him happy with another than miserable with her.

"Then what are you standing here for?" she teases, playfully shoving him in the direction he was going before she stopped him. "Go to her, and I'll shall meet you when the barricades arise!"

He starts to leave, but when she finishes the latter phrase, he pauses, the look of desperation turning into fear. Without warning, he places his hands on her shoulders and looks her straight in the eye.

"No, Eponine, you won't." Marius says sincerely, shaking his head. "You will not go to the barricades."

"This fight is just as much yours as it is mine." Eponine argues, defiance in her eyes. "And a woman can fight just as well as any man."

"I know, but that's not it." he tells her, tightening his grip on her shoulders. "I do not want you to get hurt, Eponine, and that is why you mustn't go. Please, promise me that you will stay away from the barricades!"

A pause.

"I can't promise that, Marius." she says earnestly, her eyes drifting towards the ground before meeting his. "I'm sorry."

He sighs, shaking his head as his arms fall to his sides. "This is no robbery, Eponine. You could be shot and killed, and the National Guard would not think twice about it. Man or woman, rebellion is an act of treason, and if we do not win this…I do not want you to suffer for this."

"Monsieur, I do not know if you've noticed as of late, but the life I live is not exactly a simple one." she counters, gesturing to herself. "If anything, I am already suffering, and I have been for quite some time. There is no roof above my head but the stars. The last bit of food I had was a scrap of moldy bread behind one of the bakeries. The only clothing I have is what is on my back, and it is quite raggedy as it is."

"Better for you to be alive and suffering than alive and tortured, or worse." Marius argues sharply. "If you are at the barricades, and we lose, there is no telling what the National Guardsmen will to do you if you are still alive, whether a bullet has gone through you or you have not even been scratched."

"They don't scare me." Eponine folds her arms across her chest in defiance. "When it comes down to it, they're no different than you or I. They are men in uniforms who may know how to shoot a gun better than either of us, but they are still human, who bleed and die as much as any of us."

He heaves an exasperated sigh, growing quite tired of the argument, yet desperate to get through to her at the same time. "That is not the point, Eponine, and you darn well know it. Stay away from the barricades, to give me peace of mind,  _please_ , and if you won't do it for me, then do it for Azelma, because she may very well be concerned about her sister, and if you won't do it for her, then do it for Enjolras."

The last word is what stops her from firing back a sharply-worded retort. "Pardon, but why would Enjolras be concerned about me?"

Marius takes one step back from her, a look of puzzlement on his face, which does not help her figure out much. "You don't know, do you?"

"Know what?" she asks, taking a small step towards him. "Marius, what don't I know?"

" _Merde_ , Combeferre's going to kill me!" she hears him mutter under his breath, before she thinks:  _Not if Death gets to you first_ … "Just stay away from the barricades."

Marius turns around, ready to make haste in his journey to speak with Cosette, but Eponine manages to get enough grip on his coat to prevent him from getting too far. She is not going to let him easily get away by causing such questions to come to mind, though if he tried, he might be able to get free from her grasp, but he doesn't fight.

"Marius, what don't I know?" she repeats, her eyes looking straight into his. "You wouldn't have said it if it was supposed to be of some significance to me."

"Eponine—"

"Why does he care? He's leading you and many other men to slaughter. What's to add an insignificant gamine to the list as well?" Eponine counters, amber eyes flaring. "He cannot spare us if Fate has destined us to Death."

"I am sure he wants to prevent as many deaths as he possibly can." Marius replies tightly, freeing his sleeve from her grasp. "If you are not there, that is one less life he needs to worry about."

"If I am meant to die, what little difference does it make whether it's from starvation or a bullet?"

He shakes his head. "That is beside the point—"

"Is it now?" she questions sarcastically, taking a few steps away from him. "Death always takes us away in the end. If I die at the barricades, my life is only being cut short, or perhaps not. Perhaps Destiny wants me to die at the barricades, and Fate is merely helping me along."

"Then stop listening to them!" he suggests in haste, in desperation. "If they are only pulling you closer to death, then cut the rope, sever the ties, and run. Run away from such temptation, and live on. Please, Eponine, do this for me!"

She sees the plea in his eyes, telling her to listen, and she hears him. However, she does not have to obey.

"Alright." she says finally, trying to hide her inner thoughts that would seal her fate. "I'll stay away."

* * *

She doesn't stay away.

As expected, chaos erupts, sending the Friends of the ABC to build a barricade on the Musain's doorstep. The haphazardly-built structure is just as dangerous to scale as some of the objects it contains. Snapped, jagged pieces of wood and sharp metal bars are only of couple of things in the barricade that could kill the men instead of the bullets and bayonets.

She manages to fit in well, donning men's clothing she found in the streets with her long brown hair hidden beneath her cap. None of the students seem to notice the woman among their ranks, her breasts bound and the looser clothing disguising her femininity. In times of raining bullets, she is helping to load the guns, her spot low on the barricade being easy to defend. In times of less seriousness, she has heard men make crude remarks, has been shoved around playfully, has had hands clasp her shoulders thankfully. No, no one seems to notice.

Almost no one.

It is not long after the first attack when she feels someone's eyes on her, seeing directly through her disguise. It makes her skin crawl, and she does not have to turn her head to know who is watching her. She should know better that she cannot fool  _him_ , one who has the most knowledge of anyone upon the barricade, in regards to who will perish here and who will live on with the events torturing their minds in years to come. Yes, humans may not be able to detect her, but he who lives among the living while never having lived, she cannot trick him.

In between attacks, he pulls her to the side.

"You are not supposed to be here." he growls at her, his cold hand having a tight grip on her wrist. "Do you not listen to anything you are told?"

"Depends on the situation." Eponine replies, not at all taken aback by the confrontation. "I am willing to fight for my fellow man, though I know what the outcome is to be."

"You need to leave."  _la Mort_  tells her, pointing towards a dark, unlit alley beside the barricade. "And you need to be quick about it."

She manages to free her wrist from his grasp before crossing her arms. "I am not going anywhere."

He shakes his head, blue eyes likes raging waves. "Indeed, you are. There will be no unnecessary lives risked or lost."

"So I will put myself at risk." she tells him calmly, despite the uneasy feeling she has inside. Risking her life is something she has done before, on many occasions, and did it with a sense that she had a fairly good chance of survival. However, those were not in situations where Death played a major role. She could very well die if she stays at the barricade, along with everyone else, if she is meant to. If she is not meant to die, she will survive this, won't she? Death will not take any more lives than he is meant to, not wanting to have to take so many young lives in a matter of hours in the first place? He will spare her, if she is meant to live, take her if she is not. What makes the difference whether she leaves or stays?

"Leave." he orders her, pointing once again to the exit. "Do not chance your life because you feel like it. This is dangerous, and you tempt Fate by remaining here."

"I thought Fate already had things planned out." she smirks, catching the flaw in his phrase, only to realize it might not be a flaw at all.

"She does, but she can still make changes up until one is killed. After that, I have to be involved." he answers matter-of-factly. "Which is why, mademoiselle, you must leave."

"I've made my choice, and I'm staying." she tells him, starting to walk away, only to have him catch her wrist. Not so tightly, rather just enough to make her stop for a moment. She turns her head, half-expecting him to be furious and to drag her out of harm's way. That is not what happens, though. He only looks her, his fierce expression turning into one of desperation. He knows what is to come, and she knows he is trying to spare her from it.

And then it all makes sense.

"I'm supposed to die here, aren't I?"

"Not if I can help it." he replies, his voice almost a whisper. His grasp on her wrist loosens, and she could easily escape his form if she wanted to. She can't, though, find the strength to pull away.

"You're defying Fate." Eponine states, her words sharp.

"Not entirely."  _la Mort_  answers, letting go of her wrist. Just as he opens his mouth to continue the explanation, there is the panicked shouts of "Sniper! On the roof!" and "Enjolras, look out!" before three gunshots ring out.

Eponine expects to feel pain, believing at least one of those bullets were meant for her. It would make sense, why he was telling her to leave quickly, but when she recovers from those moments of shock and checks herself for wounds, she finds no drops of crimson anywhere, feels no pain. She looks up towards where first shot came, only to see the sniper limply hanging, his rifle dangling off the roof. Maybe his bullet missed its mark, while those who could react in time shot him before he could have the opportunity to fire another shot.

It only takes her a few seconds more to notice  _la Mort_  has a hand on the left of his chest, and in the faint moonlight, she could see spots of dark crimson dripping onto the cobblestones.

His free hand grasps her wrist with a sense of urgency as he drags her into the shadows, out of everyone's sight. Clearly he did not want the others to see he was wounded, though she was not quite sure why. He was immortal, a bullet to the chest could not kill him, and with him being Death, she was almost certain he would not die. Death couldn't die, could he? If he could, then who was to replace him?

She shakes her head. No, he would not die, it would be impossible. Then again, with him being immortal, the impossible could happen. She thought back to the white candle whose molten wax turned red.

" _There are some things that simply cannot be explained. Only shown_."

This, though, this was different. This was not simply the wax changing color, rather a man bleeding out in front of her, if one could call Death a man.

She faintly recalls that same night when she collapsed in the snow, when he picked her up and carried her towards warmth. His skin was cold. He had no heartbeat. Anything that could have helped comfort her that night did not exist. Without a heart, there would be no blood, for what immortal has need of it? Their existence does not depend on it, not to survive. Seeing him bleed, watching crimson droplets turn his hand red, that shouldn't happen. He shouldn't be bleeding, he should be just fine.

But he isn't, not completely.

In the darkness of the shadows, she could see his face contort slightly in the moonlight's reflection. She could hear his breath coming in uneven gasps, and she watches him lean against the side of a building for support, as if he could no longer support his own weight. Such support only lasts for so long, though, and he collapses onto the ground.

"One…one  _wretched_  thing about this mortal form…" he starts, wincing from the pain in his chest. "It will act as a mortal form. It will scar, it will bruise, it will bleed. What happens may not kill me, but the pain, I do feel it."

He hisses as she tries to move his vermillion coat to get a better look at the wound, at least as much as she could with the moon above being her only source of light. She can hear the other men call out his name, noticing his absence, and as she is about to stand to call them over, he tugs on her sleeve.

"They cannot know." he says, glancing towards the Musain. She kneels down in front of him once more, attempting to examine the wound, but he leans away from her touch. She knows he is in a vulnerable state at the moment, and help is what he needs, but as she tries again, he moves slightly, trying to avoid her.

"Sit still." Eponine tells him gently, looking him straight in eye. "Let me help you for once, if you won't let anyone else will."

He reluctantly nods, flinching a bit when she carefully moves the fabric of his vermillion jacket and ebony waistcoat out of her way. He winces as her fingertips barely graze his blood-stained shirt, as she undoes his poorly-tied cravat and the laces of his shirt. As improper as this is, as it feels, it is the only way she can examine the injury.

The sight of blood doesn't concern her as much as the amount of it.

"Could you sit up for a moment?" she asks him, only to receive a glare in response. "I want to see if there is an exit wound."

He takes a deep breath before following her directions, and she assists him as much as she can, his full weight not on her. She cannot find any signs of crimson on the wall or ground behind him, nor can she see any holes or blood on the back of his clothing. She gently helps him rest against the wall, having reached her conclusion.

"No exit wound." she tells him grimly, and he nods in reply.

"It is nothing to fret over," he says, his words wavering from the pain. "I…I can continue…just…just fine…"

Eponine shakes her head, trying to figure out the truth in his words.  _He will live_ , she reminds herself,  _but will he be fit enough to continue on in the fight?_  From what she can tell, his strength is slowly fading away, as the night transitions from day at sunset. She watches his chest rise and fall with each breath, sees him grit his teeth from the agony the bullet is causing. No mortal man can live on without battling for his life while the bullet remains within him, whether from blood loss or infection, and though immortal  _la Mort_  may be, she is not sure if he can function properly while he still has a bullet in his chest.

"No, I do not think you can." she looks him straight in the eye, only to see the ice-like eyes bearing a hurting expression. Not from the pain, not from where the crimson liquid was dripping out of him. Rather, it was as if something she had said has hurt him more than the physical pain of the bullet, as if she stabbed him in the chest, as if she was the reason he was bleeding out upon the cobblestones.

His silence bothers her the most.

She expects him to make some argument, to continue the claim he can fight. She waits for him to tell her to leave, returning back to the conversation before he was shot. He was, and perhaps still is, trying to spare her from dying here, to prevent her from falling with the young men who do not likely know if they will last until dawn. He knows what will become of her in a matter of hours, perhaps even a matter of minutes. He knows what Fate has planned, but he wants to stop her from succumbing to it. The thing is, though, he cannot change what Fate has in store, lest there be consequences for his actions.

But why spare her? What makes her so significant for  _la Mort_  wanting to prevent her death? Why go through any trouble and risk the consequences to save her life? Wouldn't he want her to die, want her to join the ranks of the dead? Why extend the poor gamine's life of misery if it was only going to continue to be the same way?

"I have to go back and fight." she finally says, her voice quiet. His agonized eyes look at her in horror, and he takes hold of her hand, ignoring the pain in his chest.

"No." he tells her, his voice firm. "I cannot let you do that."

"If I am meant to die, then I am meant to die." Eponine says confidently, though on the inside, she is shaking. "You shouldn't stop something Fate planned, whether or not you think you should."

"The innocent should not die."

"Shadowed One, any innocence I had is long gone," she counters, fighting against the memories that took such a description away from her. "These men, they are, and yet you rallied them to a cause that is destined to fail."

"It was not my choice to make, mademoiselle, and that is something I have told you on numerous occasions." he replies, his hand loosening the grip on her wrist. "I am aware of the cost, the poor knowledge of an immortal, but if I can somehow spare one less from the bloodshed, there is less to add to the burden my shoulders carry."

"Why spare me, then, and not one of the others?" she asks, kneeling down in front of him. "Why not save Combeferre, Grantaire, Joly, or Courfeyrac? Surely these among others have those fearing for them at home, if they know of their whereabouts? My parents do not fear for me, care little for what becomes of me."

"What of your sister? Surely she will wonder, having not seen you for many months?"

She stiffens at those words, before noticing the trace of hurt, of desperation in his eyes once more. He truly wants her to leave, is more than willing to suffer whatever pain Fate will thrust upon him once this terror is over. More suffering for him to experience, beyond the pain from the bullet in his chest, beyond the agony of taking lives away for centuries that has caused his heart to turn to stone.

But why? Why suffer because of her?

"The pain will only last for so long, mademoiselle." she hears him say after a spell. "The physical pain, it will be gone before the sun sets…"

His words trailing off, the sky already surrounding them in darkness, it does not make things difficult for her to note it is not the literal day transitioning into night he is referring to.

"I will be weak for awhile, yes," he continues, and his voice is just barely stronger. "But not even weakness can prevent me from doing what I must."

She does not fight him on that point, for it is only a matter of time before he has a multitude of young lives to claim.

She does not try to stop him when he finally stands, yet at the same time she almost doesn't realize it, her thoughts busying her mind. He stumbles a bit as he tries to regain his stance, causing him to inadvertently put Eponine between him and side of the building, her back against the cold brick.

She looks at him in surprise for a moment, those steel-blue eyes staring straight back at hers. The pain in his eyes is clear, whether from the wound or from the knowledge of what is to come she is not sure of, but there is something else there as well. Sympathy? Warmth? Fear?

Without realizing it, she finds herself being drawn closer to him, leaning towards him ever so slightly. She barely notices that he does the same. Her eyes close, her head tilts to the side. She can feel his breath on her lips, and just as she is ready to give into the temptation, he pulls away sharply.

"No." she hears him say as her eyes open. "No, to do so would kill you."

She is tempted to argue that it would make little difference if he claimed her now or a few hours from now, but she realizes it is probably moot. If  _la Mort_  is trying to have her live for as long as he can, she should try to enjoy as much as she can the little moments she has left.

The frozen blue eyes meet that of amber, their usually harshness having melted. The preserving of her life, from the sealing encounter when she had slipped from the tree, all the way until now, and perhaps onward, it all makes sense. The thing is, she doesn't know how to respond upon making such a realization.

He speaks before she can do anything further.

"We should go back." There is a form of reluctance in his voice, whether is it because he is well aware of what is to happen shortly or because he has finally found the strength to stop arguing with her about her presence at the barricades, a part of her wishes she knew. Maybe he does not have the strength to argue any more.

They both return to the barricade in silence. He goes back to his comrades, who out of concern ask where he had gone, what happened, why he is covered in blood, and she returns unnoticed to her low spot on the barricade.

It is not long before the sound of footsteps on the other side of the barricade reaches her ears. She readies herself as she hears the loading of guns as the students prepare for the attack.  _La Mort_  is not too far from her, carbine in hand.

A short moment, she catches him looking at her, the expression on his face telling her all she needs to know. That this is it, this is when she dies.

Long before knowing who he truly was, she has always wondered what it would be like to die, to close her eyes and have them never open again. The pain, the suffering, all of that would cease. The breathing of the air within her lungs would never happen again, nor would there be the sound of her heart beating in her chest. Her body would no long serve a purpose, just another corpse lying in a grave. She would no longer be hungry and have to scavenge for scraps, or be thirsty and have to search for decent drinking water. No, there would no longer be a need for any of that. Nothingness, was all it would be.

The gunshots fly too soon.

She scrambles around the barricade, delivering gunpowder to whomever she noted needed it. However, it is just as she had passed some off to a man known as Feuilly does she notice Marius grab a barrel full of gunpowder, making towards the barricade with it.

She watches in horror as a soldier has a gun pointed directly at him, and without hesitation, she rushes towards them, Marius too distracted in grabbing a torch to notice the weapon aimed at his head. She takes ahold of the gun's barrel, away from Marius, giving him a few more seconds at least.

She does not have the chance to point the weapon away from her before the trigger is pulled.

She is quick to release her hold on the barrel before she begins her descent on the barricade, unaware of everything going on around her except for the pain she feels with the left side of her chest. The gunshots, the screams, the cries, she doesn't hear. Others falling, she doesn't see. Unaware that  _la Mort_  was just footsteps away.

She does not need to look down to know of the blood flowing out of her, does not move her hand to see it covered in crimson. She already knows. Slowly, ever so slowly, she can feel herself becoming weak as the seconds tick by, and wonders if anyone will notice her in such a state before her eyes close for the final time.

By the time she sits down at the bottom of the barricade, barely breathing, she realizes the gunshots have ceased, replaced by the praises and scoldings of men. Looking up, her vision slowly blurring, she makes out a man clapping Marius on the shoulder, while Combeferre scolds him about the many lives he put at risk. What he did, she isn't sure, but what he does next surprises her.

Towards her, he comes running, eyes full of worry, seemingly ignoring the other men around him as rain begins to fall.

"Monsieur, are you all right?" Marius asks, kneeling down in front of her. She doesn't respond, doesn't know how, but she somehow manages a small smile, trying to hide the pain. She does not stop him when he gently moves her hand away from her chest, allowing him to see the red liquid dripping out of her. She doesn't fight him when he removes her hat, recognition mixing with fear within his eyes.

"Eponine," he shakes his head, not trying to hide his concern. "You foolish, foolish girl…"

He turns his head, calling out for Combeferre or Joly, anyone who can help her, before sitting down beside her, one arm around the back of her shoulders while then other covers the hand over her wound. "You'll make it, Eponine, just hold on."

"Let it be." she manages to reply, hearing the footsteps of one the medics close by. She is not going to argue much, not when she can barely breathe… "There's no use for it."

"I am not leaving you." he says, looking her in the eye, the arm behind her pulling her closer before he places his chin upon her head. An attempt to hide the tears, she guesses. "Not now."

"Nothing…can…can hurt me…anymore…" her vision is slowly turning black, and she catches a glimpse of la Mort standing just a few feet away. His eyes are full of concern, while the rest of his face remains expressionless. "I'm safe…"

"Eponine…"

"Don't you fret, Monsieur Marius…" she manages to say, just barely able to breathe. "The pain…it'll be gone soon…"

She cringes and gasps from the pain, causing Marius to pull her closer. "I'm here."

"I know." Almost everything in her vision has gone black, except for the man in red in the center of her vision. Her breathing is coming in gasps now, and almost all her strength is gone. "Monsieur Marius?"

"Yes, Eponine?"

"Promise me…" She can barely speak, cannot see anything except  _la Mort_ , who only meets her gaze. "Promise me…that…that you won't die…"

"I can't—"

"Promise!" she cries, taking the hand that covers hers and gripping it tightly. She isn't so much speaking to Marius anymore, but Death himself.

_La_   _Mort_  gives her a curt nod, and she hopes it means what she thinks it does.

"…I promise…"

Those are the last words she hears before her eyes close for the final time.

* * *

Darkness. For what seems like hours, that is all she can see, as if caught in an eternal night that she can never escape from.

Is this all she will see, all she will know, for eternity? Pure darkness, in which not even shadows can appear? Is she trapped in the darkness forever, has been deemed one of the damned? Is there something she must do before she can continue on, whether it would be to Paradise above or to the flames below? Is she simply inbetween, where judgement has yet to be cast?

In the darkness, eventually, a light.

But not in the usual way.

"Eponine." she hears the familiar voice call from behind her, the first thing she has heard since she breathed her last. She turns, expecting to see that familiar form in raven-hued clothing, blond hair almost white, blue eyes like a frozen stream…

And that is exactly what she sees, except for the black wings behind him.

"Monsieur…" she attempts to string any words together, but they fail her.

He takes a brief moment to look behind him before returning his attention back to her. "He will survive, I promise."

She knows the unspoken words.  _"I would have rather saved you."_

"We all have to die sometime, Shadowed One." she says, slowly walking towards him. "His will be much later than mine, but there will come a time where you will have to claim him, too."

"If Life will allow me." he replies, glancing up into the empty air, allowing her to catch a glimpse of light in his eyes from an unseen source. "but she will learn that we cannot keep all that we wish."

Eponine catches a sort of longing in his eyes, a sort that she can recall seeing in him on at least two occasions: the night they spoke of Apollo and Daphne, and the other just shortly before she was shot. She knows why this is—she is something he can never have, just as Apollo could never have Daphne.

"You do not have to fear killing me now." she says after a few moments of silence, the two of them now face-to-face as she takes his hands into hers. "Not any longer."

There is a slight smile on his face at those words. Small, but still a smile.

"You are not dead…not yet." he reminds her softly, brushing a piece of hair out of her face. "Your life, it does not have to end here. You could still go back."

She shakes her head, aware of what such a thing would entail, for him and for her. He hopes to keep her alive, and that is something she understands, but for her to go back to the land of the living, especially after the wound she received, the blood she had lost…It would be more suffering than living. That, and she is certain she has lived her life as far as it was intended to go, and not just by the judgement of Fate. She is not afraid of dying, she is not afraid of continuing her life. Her life is done, as Fate had woven, and as she intended it to be.

"What is there for me to return to, other than shadows?" she asks of him, not expecting an answer. "I've laughed and I've cried. I've lost hope and have had it returned. Shadowed One, I have done all the living I need to do. It is time for me to move on now, and let others live on."

He nods, and she embraces him, her arms wrapping around behind his neck. He is stiff to move at first, from either surprise or simply being touched, before she feel his arms around her. She doesn't know how long the pair of them remain like this, only that when she pulls away, she can feel one hand resting on the small of her back while the other is not too far from the back of her neck.

His eyes drift towards the ground, hesitating, contemplating, avoiding her eyes. He doesn't want to do this, doesn't want to let her go. After centuries, millenniums, someone finally managed to crack his heart of stone, someone who he could not hold onto for forever. He has probably spent months dreading this moment, and now, he has no choice but to take her away from Life, and potentially, away from him.

She doesn't know if she'll see him again after this, in the realm of the dead, in Heaven or Hell. She doesn't know if she will be going somewhere he can't follow. She may see those who he takes away after her, but never him. Immortal though he is, his occupation has limitations. The Angel of Death, she has known some may call him, does not necessarily mean he is able to stand the other angels who do not share the burden he bears.

This could very well be goodbye, and that is why he not acting so quickly.

"I won't see you again, will I?" she asks after several moments of this silence, her hands grasping his. "After I die…die completely…"

"Only if you wish it to be."  _la Mort_  replies sincerely, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. "What one does once they are dead, is their choice alone, unless Fate has another plan. Simply because one is dead does not mean they wish to spend an eternity with Death."

"Oh." She understands. "You've been alone, then."

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

At this moment, she leans towards him, amber meeting sapphire, whispering, "No longer, monsieur."

With no hesitation at all, her lips meet his. One of his hands makes it to the small of her back to hold her, while the other makes its ways into her hair. With each passing moment, she finds herself growing weaker and weaker, even as her hand reaches his shoulder. Her physical form is almost no longer alive, her spirit remaining as they continue this heated embrace.

When they finally break apart, she finds she has no strength left at all before she collapses. He doesn't let her fall.

"Your strength will return soon." he tells her, his arms being the only things holding her up. She only nods curtly in reply, before noticing a flash of white in the corner of her eye. However, she does not have to turn her head too far to find out what they are.

Wings.

"And you can soar with the birds."

Her mind drifts back to their first meeting, when she had fallen from the tree, when he had told her the trees were for birds. Trees were for the birds, yes, but birds have wings. Falling is not what they do; they fly.

Alongside the raven, she will soon do the same.


End file.
